


Push and Hold

by coricomile



Series: Pull Hard [2]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 05:05:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16717072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: This is a companion piece toPull Hard and Make a Wishtold from Patrick's POV.





	Push and Hold

**Author's Note:**

> Doing some housecleaning and thought I'd put this together with it's storymate. It's unlikely to be finished, but here's where Patrick was coming from during scenes of Pull Hard and Make a Wish.

Patrick's hand is up Anna's shirt.

Her skin is soft and warm under his fingers, her shirt stretched tight over his arm. She smells like vanilla, clean, her short hair tickling his nose. Patrick's throat is dry. He'd never thought they'd actually ever get here.

Anna moves under him, presses her chest into his hand. There's lace trim around her bra that catches on Patrick's calluses. He can feel her nipple through the thin fabric, peaked, and it kind of freaks him out, even as she breathes out a soft sound into his ear.

Patrick kisses her. Kissing is familiar. He likes kissing her. She's soft and gentle and tastes kind of like cinnamon, and Patrick could probably make out the shape of her mouth in his sleep.

They've been together for a year. Anna wanted guitar lessons and Patrick needed cash, and three weeks in she'd stopped paying and he'd stopped charging. It's been- good. It's been really good.

"Patrick," Anna gasps, tilting away from Patrick's mouth. This close and without his glasses, all Patrick can see is the flutter of her eyelashes, the line of her jaw. “Do you want to-"

"I don't-" Patrick's hand freezes on Anna's breast. He can feel every inch of her under him, can feel the warmth between her legs where she's been pressing up against his thigh. "I'm-"

"I'm ready," she says. Her face is pink, the sweat at her hairline making it dark. "I want it to be you." Patrick closes his eyes. Oh, God. He's not ready for this. 

He slides his hand back when he can move again, skin going cold, and sits back on his heels. When Anna pushes herself up onto her elbows, head cocked to the side, Patrick feels something in him just. Slip away.

"Patrick?" Anna asks again. She sounds hurt.

Patrick runs a hand through his hair, chest going tight. He's soft in his jeans. That's not right. Anna's a beautiful girl that he might love. He should be turned on. He should be thrilled to lose his virginity with her. Happy. Instead, there's a thin crack of panic running up his insides, threatening to overwhelm him.

"I can't," he says, swallowing around the dryness of his throat. "I'm sorry. I just. Can't."

Patrick climbs off of her and reaches for his shoes. He's got a biology test in the morning and a giant pile of homework on his desk, and a panic attack waiting to happen. He just needs to be somewhere else right now. He just needs to get his head straight and figure out what to say to Anna when he eventually begs her for forgiveness.

"We're done, aren't we?" Anna asks. She sounds sad, but unsurprised. Patrick feels his heart sink in his chest.

"I love you, you know " he says. It sounds hollow, but he means it. There's the ghost of a touch on his back, and then the bed shifts.

"I know."

"Can we-"

"Yeah," Anna says softly. He doesn't have to look to know that she's curled up against the wall, knees up against her tiny chest. "I just. Might need some time."

"I'm sorry," Patrick says again. This isn't how he planned his day.

Very carefully, Patrick stands. He stuffs his feet into his shoes, heels squashing the broken backs down farther, collects his backpack, and leans down to kiss Anna on the cheek. Her skin is damp, but she'll never admit she's crying. Patrick's heart gives a painful, pathetic little thud.

The walk home takes forever. Patrick drags his feet the whole way, staring down at the sidewalk. He'd really thought he and Anna were going to last. He'd really thought- Something. She'd made him feel like he wasn't just a space waster. Like he could take on the world as long as she was at his side.

Dinner is on the table when Patrick gets home. He smells it before he walks in the front door. It makes his stomach hurt. He's not hungry, but his mom won't let him skip family time. He sets his backpack down in the living room and pastes on a smile. He really just wants to sleep for a while.

His mom's already in the dining room, hair tied back and sleeves rolled up. She opens her mouth- probably to tell him to wash up, or scold him for being late- but she pauses, silent, when she looks up at him. Patrick lets his stupid fake smile drop.

"What's wrong?" His mom asks. She's already reaching for him.

Patrick hasn't really hugged his mom in a long time. She's still taller than he is, and from where his head is pressed against her shoulder, he can smell the familiar sweetness of her perfume. He doesn't hug her back, but her arms tight around him feel safe. Secure.

"Anna and I broke up," he mumbles. Maybe if he just says it out loud a few times it'll stop hurting.

"Oh, honey." Patrick's mom hugs him tighter. He's glad that she doesn't tell him it'll be okay. 

\---

Patrick spends the weekend with his computer, remixing his favorite songs sullenly. His mom keeps him in a steady supply of cookies and meatloaf, dropping subtle hints about him maybe going outside. Patrick nibbles his cookies and stares at his Mac morosely. He’s never going outside again. 

There's a half finished demo on his desktop that he hasn't had the heart to work on. It had been intended to be a birthday present for Anna, but he feels like it probably wouldn't go over well now. Part of him wants to trash it. The rest of him can't get over all the work he's put into it.

Sunday night he puts it on repeat and curls up in his bed. His hair is greasy against his cheek, his shirt gross. He's pathetic. There's something wrong with him to have let this get so out of control.

He calls Anna at nine. The phone goes to voicemail automatically. It stings. He listens to Anna's voice with his eyes closed, chest aching. At the end, he can hear himself laughing in the background. He doesn't leave a message.

"This is pathetic," Kevin says, leaning against Patrick's door.

"Go away," Patrick says. He whines when Kevin grabs his arm, dragging him off the bed.

"Dude, I can't let you do this." Kevin frog marches him to the bathroom, manhandling him into the shower. Patrick yelps when the cold water hits him. "You're going to make yourself presentable to people and then you're coming out with me."

"Let me go," Patrick shouts, trying desperately to jerk out of Kevin's hold. He slips on the porcelain, falling further into Kevin's grasp.

"I'm doing this for you," Kevin says, jamming Patrick's head under the spray. He shoves a shampoo bottle into Patrick's hand and lets him go. "Be ready in a half hour. I'll take you out of this house naked if I have to." He smacks the back of Patrick's head before he leaves the bathroom. Patrick hates him.

Still, he kicks his wet boxers off and peels his shirt off. He scrubs halfheartedly at his hair, staring at the drain. He doesn't want to go out. He wants to mope in his room and maybe call Anna again. It's not like it's too much to ask for.

Kevin drags him out of his bedroom exactly a half hour later. Patrick pulls his cap over his forehead and sulks to the car. He doesn't ask where they're going because he doesn't care. Kevin spends a lot of the drive rolling his eyes.

They end up at a house party. Patrick can hear the music from outside, can feel it in the ground when he steps out of the car. This isn't really what he was expecting. 

"Try to enjoy yourself," Kevin says as they walk up to the door. He shoves Patrick inside first. "Go geek out at the band. I know you want to."

Patrick wants to sulk, but it's true.

The house is filled with people Patrick kind of sort of recognizes. He waves at a few, smiling tightly when he's addressed. He's never really been a party person. It's too tight. Too much about hormones and not enough about anything interesting. Still, from inside he can hear the band clearly and recognizes them.

They're set up in the dining room, blocked off by a makeshift barrier of rolled up sheets and chairs. Patrick's seen Arma Angelus before, but never up close like this. He shoves himself into a corner, away from the small crowd that's dancing in the middle of the room, and watches.

He's jealous. There's no way he can even pretend he isn't. Every band he's cobbled together or joined with has been walking disaster; kids fucking around in their parents' garages and desperate boys hoping to impress sad girls. Patrick has so many ideas, so much music he wants to make. It burns that no matter how hard he works he gets left with nothing.

Kevin checks on him periodically, handing him punch and rubbing Patrick's head through his hat. It's annoying but comforting. Patrick stays in his corner, even as the room fills out more, watching fingers on strings and hands around sticks. He knows each one of them from the scene, has heard their names at shows and practices.

Pete Wentz is a lot smaller when he isn't on a stage, Patrick thinks.

The room goes from comfortable to sweltering in gradual increases. Patrick shrugs his hoodie off and tosses it awkwardly over his shoulder. Part of him wants to duck outside to cool down, but the rest of him is too busy watching the band to care. He's still debating when Kevin pops up next to him, dragging a freshman along with him.

"Patrick, this is Janet," Kevin says, leading her forward with a hand on her back. Patrick tries not to panic. Any goodwill that had been restored for Kevin is now long gone. "Janet, this is my little brother. I think you guys'll get along."

"Hi," Janet says, voice barely audible over the music.

"Hi," Patrick says back weakly. He feels cornered. "I uh. Was going to head outside. If you'll just-"

"Kevin's told me a lot about you." Janet smiles at him, tilting her head. When she steps closer, Patrick steps back. "He said you're getting over a breakup."

"Yeah," Patrick says, chest aching dully at the reminder. He'd almost forgotten. "I. Yeah."

"I could help you," Janet says. Patrick wonders what Kevin bribed her with. He can almost hear him telling some impressionable girl to _help_ his baby brother out. It makes him feel equal parts embarrassed and angry.

"I'll be alright." Patrick backs into the wall, hands shoved into his pockets.

Janet smiles again, one hand lifting up to rest on Patrick's hip. Patrick's heart thumps up to his throat, nervous. He tries to dodge when she leans in, but there's nowhere to go. He squeezes his eyes closed and tries not to be a total failure.

Janet tastes like candy apple lipgloss, lips soft and smooth against his. She smells like the same kind of cucumber body wash Anna uses. Patrick feels nothing. He blinks his eyes open, tilting his head back. Janet follows him, ignoring all his signs. Patrick looks awkwardly around her, trying to find an exit.

His eyes stutter to a halt at the makeshift stage. Wentz has taken his shirt off and climbed onto the dining room table. He has one hand on the ceiling fan, back arched back as he yells into his microphone. The light catches on the sweat gathered along his back and makes dark shadows in the hollows of his hips. When he bends down, his jeans slip down a little, showing the top of his ass. Patrick squeezes his eyes shut, ignoring the curl of heat in his stomach.

"I can't do this," Patrick says against Janet's mouth. He pushes her away gently by the shoulders, staring at the floor. "It was nice to meet you. I'm gonna-" He slides out from between her and the wall, shouldering through the crowd. He's going to kill Kevin when he finds him.

There's too many people. Patrick feels antsy, like he's being watched. Like he's being judged. Like people will know that he's broken somehow. He should have wanted to mess around with Janet. He should have wanted to sleep with Anna. There has to be something wrong with him.

He finds Kevin in the kitchen, surrounded by seniors. The look Kevin gives him is mostly confusion, but Patrick knows him well enough to see the disappointment. When Patrick nods his head to the door, Kevin excuses himself from his friends and leads the way out.

Patrick spends the ride home picking at his jeans, waiting for Kevin to call him out. He's surprised to find that he's a little disappointed when it doesn't happen.

\---

For the next two weeks, Patrick wakes up from dreams that leave him sticky hot and panting, flashes of dark skin and flat stomachs stuck the the insides of his mind. He changes his sheets guiltily and tells himself that it's totally normal for a guy his age.

After one particularly miserable night, he pulls his laptop off the dresser and locks his door. He's never really- he doesn't watch porn. Not really. It takes him awhile to find what he's looking for, guilt and nerves piling up in his stomach like lead. 

The video he clicks on is thirty seconds long and has two boys that look barely older than him in it. Patrick takes a deep breath, double checks the volume control, and presses play. It's a terrifying thirty seconds.

Patrick watches one of the boys wrap his mouth around the other one's dick, eyes wide open and bright. He lowers his head slowly, the other boy's fingers tangling up in his blonde hair, urging him on. Patrick shifts awkwardly in his chair, not really sure where to look. When the video is over, he lets out the breath he'd been holding and presses play again.

The boy getting head has nice thighs, Patrick thinks. He looks up the solid line of them, watches the blonde's hand run up one to the other boy's ass. His dick twitches in his sweatpants. Patrick isn't really sure how he feels about this development.

He watches the video three more times, until the sound of their moans are imprinted on his brain, the sight of them burned into the back of his eyelids. Somewhere between the third and the fourth viewing, his hand has crept down to rest over his cock, pressing down gently.

When he jerks off, he tells himself it's an experiment. Just an experiment.

\---

Patrick doesn't talk to Anna again until summer break is almost over. She's got a job in Evanston and he's in and out of shitty bands more often than not. They don't avoid each other, but they don't really seek each other out either.

Patrick doesn't mention his newfound curiosity, and she doesn't mention the necklace with another boy's initials on it. Somewhere else, Patrick thinks, they might have worked out. Somewhere else, he might not have broken her heart. 

They make awkward small talk until Anna has to leave to catch her bus. When they hug, Patrick thinks about telling her. Instead, he just waves and plasters on a smile.

\---

Patrick jams his hands into his pockets. He's freezing, coat not quite thick enough to block out the bite of the wind. It's the first night of Thanksgiving break and he's out past his curfew, hands shaking. He's not sure if it's from the cold or nerves.

There's a wad of cash in his pocket and a fake ID that looks like it was hastily cobbled together in a high school kid's basement. This is probably the stupidest idea he's ever had. This is probably the last stupid idea he'll ever have, because if and when his mom finds out, he'll be grounded for life.

Jackhammer looks like a regular building, tucked up into the wall next to a restaurant and another bar. There's a little rainbow sticker on the door, right next to the handle and the giant bouncer guarding the door. Patrick leans against the wall and cups his frozen hands over his mouth to warm them up.

He can't do this. He's sixteen and looks younger. Even if he gets inside, what's he going to do? Chat up some guy? He can barely think about it without freezing up. No one's going to take him seriously. He's just- he's so stupid.

There's a group of guys stumbling across the street, ignoring the honks of cars going by them. One of them trips over the curb, drunk already. Patrick shrinks into the wall. He's going to walk to the El, go home, and forget about ever trying to go to a gay bar.

"Hey," one of the drunks calls. Patrick startles. The guy is looking at him expectantly. "John, let's go!" Patrick stares at him, suddenly unable to move. The guy makes a face at him, waving at the inside. "Chris has your ID, asshole." He turns to the bouncer and grins, his cheeks puffing out. "He's drunker than I am, dude."

Patrick swallows down his fear and shoves off the wall. This guy is giving him an in. It's got to be a sign of some sort. Patrick ducks under his arm, into the loud bar, and tries not to have a panic attack. He's breaking so many laws right now. 

He trails after the guy that had let him in, glancing nervously over his shoulder. He's never been the kind of kid to go looking for trouble. He has to admit it feels- kind of nice. Rebellious. It feels real.

"My name isn't John," Patrick shouts over the music. There's so many lights, so many colors. The sensation of it might be too much for him.

"No, really?" The guy asks. Patrick flinches. "I'm Pete," he says, holding his hand out. His arm is thick and solid and ringed in tattoos. There's something familiar about him that Patrick can't quite pin down. 

"Patrick." Patrick takes his hand, shaking awkwardly. He bites down on an indignant squawk when Pete tosses an arm over his shoulders. He smells like cologne. Like sweat and liquor. It's nice in a weird way.

Patrick tries not to trip over his feet as Pete drags him through a sea of talking, half dancing men. Most of them are in their thirties or older, better dressed than Patrick could ever even pretend to be. Pete looks closer to Patrick's age at least, and when Patrick dares to look up at him, he goes a little pink.

"Awesome. Now, I had an awesome buzz going, and since I got you in? You should buy us a shot. Sound like a good plan?" Pete parks them in front of the bar, shoving Patrick up between two stools.

"Sure," Patrick chokes out. There's someone's thigh pressed against his hip. Someone who's old enough to be his dad. "Are you sure they're not going to card me?"

"Yes," Pete says, giving him a smile that shows most of his teeth. He pounds the bar and turns the smile onto the busty bartender. Patrick watches her face as closely as he can. "Two double shots of Black Velvet."

Patrick peels a few bills off the squished roll in his pocket and lays them on the counter, shifting awkwardly. He's waiting for the bartender to call him out, but she just slaps the shots down and swipes the cash off the counter. The alcohol sloshes onto the bar, dark and thin.

Patrick carefully curls his fingers around the tall shot glass and takes a deep breath. He's never drank anything stronger than wine coolers before, never really gotten drunk. He looks at the bar around him, at Pete, and decides that there really is no time but the present.

“Drink up,” Pete says. “Count of three. One, two-” Pete knocks his back easily, his Adams apple bobbing as he swallows. 

Patrick tries to mimic him, eyes squeezed shut. It burns going down. Patrick chokes a little, whiskey spilling back over his chin as he tries to swallow it all down. He can hear Pete laughing next to him. The warmth in his throat spreads down to his belly, pooling behind his navel. It's- good, once the coughing stops.

"Good stuff, right?" Pete asks, thumping Patrick's back. "Let's do it again."

Patrick coughs again as Pete waves the bartender down. He plops his cash onto the bar, takes his shot, and is proud when it goes down easily. The third time is even easier.

Pete won't stop laughing. It's contagious. When Patrick stands, he feels like his head is swimming. He has to catch onto Pete's shoulder to keep himself upright. Pete's warm and solid under his hand. Patrick isn't sure if the heat in his face is from the booze or from being so close to such an attractive guy.

"One more," he says, shaking his head. Pete just laughs and laughs.

They talk-shout under the music for a long time, drinking an assortment of beers that Patrick can barely wrap his mouth around. Three guys buy them rounds, nodding their heads. Patrick's pretty sure the only reason they're even looking at him is because of Pete.

"Music," Patrick says sometime later, leaning heavily on the bar. He misses playing real music. "I want to do that for the rest of my life." Even as everything else changes around him, music has been there solidly.

"It's not all it's cracked up to be," Pete says. His hands are shaking, body swaying on the stool. His face looks kind of fuzzy.

"How would you know?" Patrick asks, narrowing his eyes. He kind of feels like he's going to fall onto the floor.

"I've played in Arma for, like- uh. For a while." Pete hiccups, then laughs. Patrick laughs too. Then he actually hears what Pete said and feels his eyes go wide.

"Oh. Oh. You're Pete _Wentz_?" Now that he's looking, Patrick can place his face to the name. He hadn't known that _Pete Wentz_ was gay. "Wow. That's awesome. I go to a lot of your shows." That is not strictly true, but it's also not a lie.

"Cool stuff, dude," Pete says. When he smiles, he shows all his teeth. He buys them vodka lemonades and crashes their glasses together like he's falling into it.

Patrick feels small and young and kind of stupid, hanging onto Pete's tour stories. He nods a lot even though it makes his head swim, too awestruck to ask questions. Not that he needs to; Pete runs off at the mouth easily, full of an easy energy that Patrick can barely keep up with. 

This is possibly one of the most awesome nights of Patrick's life. He takes another beer from the bartender without asking where it came from, swallows it down. It doesn't even taste like anything anymore. Every time he closes his eyes, colors burst behind his eyelids and his stomach rumbles uncomfortably. Patrick holds it in. He will not puke in front of Pete. He won't.

Somewhere between dizzy and sloppy, Patrick starts singing along to the music playing over the speakers. He slurs half the words, mouth lazy, but the three dudes in the corner that bought them drinks before clap and shout for more. Patrick laughs and sings Pink at the top of his lungs. Next to him, Pete's grinning big and stupid, like Patrick's doing something right.

"We should go," Pete says after Patrick's gone through half the jukebox. There's twelve singles in Patrick's pocket and a scribbled down phone number. He feels pretty successful.

"I don't want to," Patrick says. He leans against Pete's side, sucking up his warmth. Pete throws an arm around his shoulders, drags him up.

"Now, now. It's past your bedtime." Pete snorts, loud and unattractive. Patrick feels like he's been insulted, but he can't figure out quite how.

He wobbles out the door with Pete, giggly and spinny. Today was a great day. Today was a good use of breaking laws. He's a criminal and he loves it.

Pete stumbles over the curb, catching his weight on Patrick. There's two seconds where Patrick knows he's going to fall- knows he's going to scratch his face against the pavement and possibly lose a tooth. Then he finds his footing and laughs because there is absolutely nothing else he can do. He's still laughing when Pete kisses him.

Patrick leans into it, a little desperate. Pete's just- he likes Pete too much already and Pete _gets_ him and _Pete, Pete, Pete_.

Pete crowds him into an alley, all the laughter gone. Patrick's feet tangle up underneath him as he goes, but Pete's right there with him all the way. Pain hits him when his hip crashes into a dumpster, bouncing off into the wall.

The air around them is freezing, stinging Patrick's cheeks and turning his breath into steam. Pete's hot under his hands though, hot where he's pinning Patrick against the wall. There's so much Patrick wants to do, so much he wants Pete to do. He can't find a place for his hands, can't do much besides groan against Pete's mouth.

He feels Pete's hand slide into his back pocket and he jerks up against Pete's thigh. Fuck, he's turned on. Pete squeezes, pulls him closer. Patrick breaks away, the wet sound of their mouths separating shooting straight to his dick.

"Let me," he starts, shoving Pete back against the dumpster.

He drops down to his knees, too fast and too hard. Pebbles dig into his skin through his jeans, but he can't think about the pain when he's so close to Pete's dick. He can see it outlined in Pete's pants, hard and thick and needy.

Patrick's hands shake as he tries to unbutton them. He can feel how hot Pete is, and his nerves are finally catching up to him. This is Pete Wentz- someone who's a someone. He's just Patrick Stumph- a virgin with a week's worth of gay porn to go off of.

When he finally gets Pete's jeans undone he leans in and fits his mouth against Pete's dick, mouthing at him through his underwear. The cotton is rough against his tongue. Above him, Pete moans low in his throat. It's the hottest thing Patrick's ever heard. 

Patrick jerks Pete’s underwear down, nearly toppling backwards. He can do this. He’s totally prepared. He wraps a shaky hand around Pete’s dick, breathes deep, and ducks in. Pete’s cock stretches his mouth just enough to make him feel like he’s drooling. Patrick sinks his head down until his mouth hits his hand and goes back again.

He’s too dizzy. It’s weird moving, but in a good way. He thinks about the porn he’d watched, thinks about what would feel good, and tries to duplicate it. When Pete’s fingers tangle up in his hair he whines and pulls off, breathless. In front of him, Pete’s dick is shiny and red. Patrick leans in, presses his mouth against Pete’s thigh. 

Pete groans when Patrick licks at his balls. Patrick does it again, sucks at them. He feels the wet slap of Pete’s dick against his cheek and is mortified somewhere inside. 

The hand in his hair guides him back up to Pete's dick. He chokes when it slides too far into his mouth. He squeezes his eyes shut and tells himself he won't throw up. He won't.

It doesn't matter anyway. Before Patrick can ground himself Pete's pulling out and coming on his face, hot and sticky. Patrick takes three seconds to catch his breath before scrabbling at his jeans. Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck.

He falls forward against Pete when he gets a hand around himself. Pete's stomach is warm and flat against his mouth, and he can feel Pete's come smearing onto his skin. It's dirty as fuck. Patrick groans, fucking into his fist desperately. When he comes, he sees stars.

Pete hauls him to his feet, laughing when Patrick takes too long to find his footing. He scrubs at Patrick's mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie, hand pausing on Patrick's cheek. Patrick can't stop smiling.

Here, now, he feels invincible.

"'m a fucking groupie," he mumbles against Pete's wrist. His heart beats double, shy. The way Pete's looking at him makes his chest ache.

They stumble out of the alley together. Patrick can't let go of him, even as Pete waves wildly for a cab. If this is all he's getting, he's going to make it last.

"Is someone going to miss you tonight?" Pete asks when a taxi pulls to a stop next to them.

"No," Patrick answers. He can barely hear over his thundering heartbeat. Pete's asking him to go home with him. Pete wants to- to something with him. Patrick would risk _years_ of grounding for this.

He lets Pete shove him into the back of the cab, legs still wobbly. His pants are still undone, slipping off his hips every time he moves. When Pete bounces against him, Patrick grabs on and doesn't let go.

The ride is a blur. Literally. Patrick can't see much farther than Pete's mouth and the curve of Pete's throat, can't hear anything but his own breathing. He spares a brief thought for Anna, for how he never felt like this when he was with her. How it was never really right.

When they pull up at Pete's place, Pete shoves a handful of crumpled bills at the cabbie. He drags Patrick through the manicured lawn, laughing loud enough to wake the neighbors. There's a moment between the front door and Pete's room that Patrick freaks out.

He's doing this. He's really doing this.

His back hits the wall, head thumping against a poster. Pete's mouth on his like fire. Patrick's never going to get sick of kissing him. He drags his hands up Pete's side, groping for skin under his jacket and shirt.

"Fuck," Pete mumbles against his mouth, pulling back long enough to yank his shirt off. "Fuck." He fists a hand in Patrick's hoodie, knuckles pressing into Patrick's chest.

Patrick trip walks to the bed, laughing when Pete tosses him down onto it. He can barely see in the dark room, but it doesn't matter. He can feel Pete moving over him and around him and that's more than enough.

For a few moments, he thinks Pete's just going to leave it at making out over the covers, rubbing against one another like teenagers. There's something both disappointing and relieving about that thought.

"I'm going to fuck you through the ground," Pete says, low against Patrick's jaw. There's a soreness there that Patrick knows will be a hickey. He's probably over excited about the thought of it dark on his skin.

"Yeah," Patrick chokes out. "Yeah."

He goes when Pete flips him over, raises his hips up when Pete touches them. He's not as drunk as he was before but there's still a steady buzz under his skin that makes him loose and easy. Pete undoes his fly with one hand, pressed hot and heavy against his back.

Patrick's still in his clothes when Pete shoves two fingers into his mouth. Patrick sucks on then eagerly, eyes closing. It's a nice distraction. He might not actually be ready to be here, bare ass in the air for Pete to see. He shivers when Pete pulls his hand away. This is really going to happen. This is- not what he expected when he left the house. 

Pete presses a finger against his ass, slipping it in. Patrick jerks, head dropping to the mattress. It’s too fast. He whines, tries to squirm away, but Pete follows him, keeps fucking him with his finger. Patrick squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. Thousands of people do- do this, and like it. He just has to relax.

The second finger kind of pinches. Patrick leans on his shoulders and reaches down to grope at himself. He’s only half hard, but he thinks nervously about Pete fucking him and feels himself relaxing a little. Something bubbles up in him, breaking out in a nervous laugh. He’s _losing his virginity to Pete Wentz._

“Fuck,” Pete says, pulling his hand away. Patrick expects to hear a condom wrapper, but the only warning he gets before Pete presses into him is the slick sound of Pete spitting into his palm.

It hurts.

Patrick releases the breath caught in his throat and pushes back against Pete. He just has to relax. It's- he'll be okay. He jerks himself off lazily, trying to match Pete's rhythm. There's nothing left of the dizzy drunkenness inside him anymore, just him and Pete and the sound of Pete's hips against his ass. It takes him a long while to realize he's humming along to their fucking.

The pain fades when Pete leans in against him, skin hot all the way through Patrick's clothes. One of his arms wraps around Patrick's chest holding him. When he feels Pete's mouth against the side of his jaw, he melts a little.

It doesn't last long, but when Patrick feels Pete groan into his hair- when he feels Pete _come inside him_ , Patrick jerks himself off faster and surprises himself with how strong his own orgasm is.

Pete kind of flops over, dragging Patrick down to the mattress with him. He's going soft inside Patrick, one arm tossed over Patrick's waist. It's- nice. Patrick snuggles back against him and closes his eyes.

He dreams about playing music next to Pete, dreams about going home with him show after show. It's a good night.

\---

Patrick wakes up slow and lazy, yawning into his pillow. He shifts, kicking his jeans all the way off when he realizes they're tangled around his ankles. His knees hurt and his ass hurts and his eyes feel sort of swollen when he opens them, but he feels way better than he thought he would.

Pete's still sleeping next to him, breathing softly. There's a dark, round mark at the base of his throat that Patrick can't stop staring at. He did that. _He_ did that. It makes him feel kind of giddy and lightheaded. 

Tentatively, he reaches out and touches it gently, fingertips barely ghosting across Pete's skin. Pete's warm against him, loose. Patrick watches his chest rise and fall, unable to look away. Pete Wentz he thinks. _Pete Wentz_.

Patrick curls up against him, fingers tracing up and across Pete’s chest. His stomach twists as he thinks about last night. When he moves his hips, he can almost feel Pete inside him. It makes him feel hot, dick swelling in his boxers. He wonders if Pete would be mad if he woke him up for another round. 

Well, he thinks, wincing when he turns onto his side, maybe not another round, but something.

He watches Pete’s face as he reaches down slowly, fingers brushing against the dark hair that leads into Pete’s boxers. Pete shifts, eyes fluttering and eyebrows drawing together. He’s soft when Patrick wraps his fingers around him, but his dick wakes up faster than he does, twitching into hardness. Patrick strokes him slowly, learning the feel of him.

It’s different than jerking himself off. The angle is weird and Pete’s boxers are kind of trapping his wrist, but it feels good. Like he’s got some sort of power. Pete’s so hot in his hand, heavy. Patrick listens to his soft sounds, trying to pick out what’s best. 

He wonders how many people Pete’s been with- how many guys. The insides of Patrick’s thighs are still sticky, his underwear half off his ass. There’s no way that he’s the first guy Pete ever fucked. He wonders when Pete found out he liked guys at all. As he watches Pete’s mouth fall open, something like relief settles into his stomach.

I’m gay, he thinks. It’s kind of scary and kind of life changing but right. He’s gay. 

Pete turns his head away when Patrick tries to kiss him. Patrick shrinks back, embarrassed, keeping his wrist going. He can feel Pete’s thighs tensing under his wrist, his hips lifting up. Pete comes into his hand, sticky wet and hot, and Patrick’s own dick twitches in response. Fuck. He didn’t expect this to be so hot. He presses a kiss the the hickey on Pete’s throat, smiling against it. There’s nowhere he has to be today. Hopefully he can spend it here. 

“I think I lost my pants,” he says, lips scraping against the stubble on Pete’s jaw. He pulls back a little, shrugging. He chews nervously on his lip and gives a weak smile. “Guess I’ll have to stay in bed.”

“Get out,” Pete says, rough. He pulls back even as Patrick reaches for him. 

“Pete?” He asks, hesitant. Pete sits up, one hand pressed to his forehead. He closes his eyes and keeps them shut. Patrick feels his heart sinking into his stomach.

“Get the fuck out,” Pete says, voice bouncing off the walls. 

This isn’t right. This- this isn’t- No. Patrick scrambles backwards, toppling off the bed. His knees hit the wood hard enough that he feels them crack. He can’t breathe. Pete kicks his pants onto the floor, head still cradled in his hand. Patrick feels himself go red when he bends to pick them up. It hurts, pulls at his legs and makes every pain from last night rise back up. He feels used.

He feels stupid. 

His jeans don’t go on easily, tangled up and damp at the bottoms from snow. His heart is thundering in his chest. How could he think that this was anything- anything special? How could he think that Pete fucking Wentz could give a fuck about some out of shape groupie? His shoes are across the room, knocked off with the laces still on. He fumbles with them, hands shaking too much to function properly.

“Can you at least give me a ride home?” He asks, voice wobbling. He won’t cry. There’s no fucking way that he’s going to cry like a fucking kid. He clenches his fists instead, trying to be more angry than upset. 

“Get the fuck out,” Pete shouts. He looks up, eyes bloodshot, mouth twisted up in an ugly sneer. “Get the fuck out and don’t come back.”

Patrick leaves. He does his fucking walk of shame through Pete’s empty house, slamming the door shut behind him. 

Patrick forces himself to walk to the end of the block, breathing slowly through his mouth. Every step aches and every ache makes him think about Pete fucking him. He'd been such an idiot. He swallows down the urge to break down in the middle of the road and fumbles for his phone.

"Can you get me?" Patrick asks when Kevin answers. He doesn't know what time it is, doesn't really know where he is.

"You okay?" Kevin asks. He sounds like he's just woken up. Patrick slows to a stop, leaning in against the nearest bike rack.

"I. Yeah." Patrick runs a shaky hand through his hair. His hat's gone, probably stuffed somewhere under Pete's bed. "Please. Can you just pick me up?"

"Yeah," Kevin says softly. There's the sounds of him moving things around, then the jangle of his keys. "Where are you?"

"I'm-" Patrick looks around, narrowing his eyes against the sun. He's got a headache pulsing in the back of his head, stomach churning. "Hang on."

There's a shopping center kind of nearby. He wobbles towards it, listening to his brother's even breathing. Kevin doesn't say anything as Patrick makes his way into the Panera Bread at the end of the road.

"Excuse me," Patrick says, clearing his throat nervously. He covers the mouthpiece of his phone, eyes trained on the cashier's sticker covered nametag. "Could you tell me where I, uh. Where this is?"

"Oh, honey," the cashier says. She hands him a paper coffee cup, patting his hand gently.

There's a worn wedding ring around her finger, her voice thick with a Spanish accent. She gestures for his phone and Patrick hands it over, head hung. Patrick fills his coffee cup up as she tells Kevin the address. He's too embarrassed to do anything else. The woman, Mary, hands Patrick his phone back a few moments later.

"He'll be here soon," she says. "Go on, sit down."

Patrick curls up in a booth in the back, nursing his coffee. He tries to keep his mind carefully blank, but all he can see is Pete laughing and Pete's stupid fucking orgasm face and _Pete, Pete, Pete._

When Kevin collects him, he's mostly done with his lukewarm coffee. It sits like lead in his stomach, but his headache has cleared a little. Kevin doesn't say anything, just gives him a small smile and helps him out to the car, one hand steady on Patrick's elbow.

Kevin drives through a McDonald's on the way home and hands Patrick a large order of fries. The smell of them makes Patrick nauseous, but he picks at them weakly. He has to look like hell. He doesn't want to know what he looks like. Used, he thinks again. He probably looks used.

The ride home is silent. Patrick only eats a few of the fries, but the rumbling in his gut lessens a little. His mother's car isn't in the driveway. There's that at least, he thinks.

"Be careful," Kevin says when he cuts the engine. It's the first thing he's said since Patrick got in the car. Patrick swallows and nods.

Too late, he thinks.

\---

[Blah, blah, blah]

The Christmas music in the mall is driving Patrick nuts. He rubs at his temple with one hand, taking a slow breath. He’s got five shopping days left and three family members to buy for. If he’s lucky, he’ll be able to finish today. If he has to listen to _White Christmas_ one more time though he might lose his shit.

He’s got sweaters for aunt Mary and Katherine in one bag, discount watches in another for his uncles. His legs are tired from wandering around, sneakers squeaking against the tile with every labored step. This Christmas stuff is tiring. It’s only natural that he pops into the record store. 

[Blah]

He’s got his hand on a classic Louis Armstrong, fingers moving over the cover gently. He can’t afford it, but if he could- oh, man. He’d treat it so good. One day, he’s going to be able to afford as many records as he wants. One day, he’ll make his own. One day. His phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s probably Kevin waiting for him outside. He reluctantly lets the record go, sighing. 

When he makes for the exit, he runs face first into another person. It feels like an appropriate end to a shitty shopping trip.

“Sorry,” he grunts, bending down to help pick up the mess of cds scattered on the floor.

“No problem.” The guy has a little lisp, his eyes half closed like he’s barely awake. He’s wearing a 7 Angels 7 Plauges shirt that looks worn through.


End file.
